Unconventional Methods
by OxOx-Megz-OxOx
Summary: John was astounded. Sherlock genuinely didn't understand why John would love him. He was so unconvinced of his own self-worth, that even the concept of somebody loving him seemed...wrong. [Re-written Johnlock version of the train scene in 3x01. Rated T for language]


Sherlock and John looked around the seemingly empty car. The only source of light was coming from their torches, and that in itself was making the task even more difficult. John wasn't even sure what it was that they were supposed to be looking for in the first place. Where could you hide a bomb in a train car? Pacing up and down the length of the aisle, John could hear his heartbeat in his ears. It had been almost two years since something like this had happened to him, and to be honest...he'd missed it. Though he'd never Sherlock.

Looking over at him, John was still finding it hard to believe that he was alive. Watching him fall from that rooftop...it had all seemed so _real. _Not the phone-call, of course, he'd always known that Sherlock had been lying then, though he'd never known why_. _Even now, he wasn't entirely sure. But watching Sherlock fall was different. Because as far as John had known, you couldn't fake _that._

He should have known better. Of course, if anyone could fake their own death, it would be Sherlock bloody Holmes.

Suddenly, something wobbled underneath Sherlock's foot. John looked down, as did Sherlock, and they noticed a small panel in the floor. Something in Sherlock's eyes lit up, and John felt his stomach twist. This was it, it _had _to be. Sherlock bent down, perching on his feet, and lifted up the panel. John turned, looking around the car. _Of course._

He swivelled round to the seats behind him, and began to lift up the cushioning, one by one. And just as he'd known there would be, under each one, were rows upon rows of lights, and wires. Sherlock had been right, the bomb wasn't in the car, the car _was _the bomb. Clever plan, really. If the police had ever found out where the bomb actually _was, _this was the last thing that they would've thought of.

Putting the panel to one side, Sherlock looked down at the flashing lights and wires that made up the bomb. John put the seats back down, and turned to look at his friend. But the bomb was what caught his eye.

It was big. A _lot _bigger than he'd been expecting. Of course, he'd been to Afghanistan, he'd seen bombs before. Grenades, TNT, pipe bombs...even a few glide bombs, and they were pretty big. He'd never seen one this size before, and when he thought about how large the car was...yes, he'd seen many bombs before. But he'd also seen the damage that they could do, and if this bomb was as powerful as he thought it was . . . then who knew how much damage it could do.

"Oh God...oh...oh God," John mumbled, breathing rapidly. His heart was hammering against his chest now, and he wandered up and down the carriage, not knowing what to do. Sherlock stood up slowly, watching John. "We need bomb disposal."

"There may not be time for that now," Sherlock replied, looking a lot calmer than John felt.

"So what do we do?" John asked, not taking his eyes off the bomb. He took several deep breaths, trying to calm himself. Sherlock would think of something, a plan. Sherlock always had a plan. Always.

"I have no idea."

John looked up, narrowing his eyes. At first, he thought that Sherlock might be joking. Of course he knew what to do, he was Sherlock. He always knew what to do. He always had a plan, and everything always turned out fine. That was just the way things were. But as his eyes met Sherlock's, he saw the half-concealed fear in them, and he knew that Sherlock was telling the truth.

"Well think of something."

"Why do you think I know what to do?" Sherlock asked, looking genuinely confused. John could see that he was scared, but he could feel his own fear being replaced by something different, something...stronger. A sharp, fiery anger was beginning to course through him, and he could feel himself begin to tremble with rage. He knew it was completely illogical; it was hardly Sherlock's fault that they were in this mess. But he could stop it no more than he could contain it.

"Because you're Sherlock Holmes," replied John, swaying on his feet and blinking several times. His heart was racing again, but now it was only pumping anger through his veins. Pure and blazing. All the fear he had felt was gone, and now he felt nothing but anger. It wasn't exactly at Sherlock per se, but he was the only person available for John to take it out on. "You're as clever as it gets."

Normally Sherlock would have been a little bit flattered at the half-compliment, but now really wasn't the time. And he was beginning to get just as frustrated as John was. "That doesn't mean I know how to defuse a giant bomb," he replied, sounding slightly irritated now. "What about you?"

"I wasn't in bomb disposal, I'm a bloody Doctor."

"And a _soilder," _Sherlock remarked, pointing at John with his torch, to emphasize. "As you keep reminding us all."

They both paused a moment, to look down at the bomb. It was still turned off, for the moment, and the timer stuck on 2:30. John shone his torch around the device, looking for some kind of switch, or compartment. Just something that might give them at least an _idea _about what to do. But he found nothing. Even if he had found something, he still wouldn't have any idea what to do. He didn't know the difference between what would turn the bomb off, and what would set it off early.

"Can't...can't we...rip the timer off or something?" John asked, though he knew as soon as he said it that it was a stupid idea. Sherlock looked at him with disbelief, as if to ask how he could be so stupid. John sighed to himself, and swayed on his feet.

"That would set it off."

"You see, you know things!" John said, his voice coming out shakier than he'd expected. His anger had disappeared as quickly as it had come, only to be replaced by blind panic. His heart was hammering again, and he felt a sharp pain in his chest when he drew in a breath. As a doctor, he knew what was happening. He was having a mild panic attack, though there wasn't much he could do about it now.

Sherlock sighed, looking down at the bomb. His eyes were also full of panic, though he was desperate to hide it from John. He knew that if John could see how scared he _really _was, then he would know that there was quite literally no hope that either of them were going to make it out alive. Even if the bomb hadn't been turned on yet, it was only a matter of time. No, they were dead men walking.

All of a sudden, there was a small click, and a whirring sound. Sherlock glanced around frantically, as the lights flickered on. The clicking continued as Sherlock's eyes travelled the length of the carriage, but John stood, stock still. He still had his torch pointing down at the bomb, and watched with horror, as the numbers began to change. Sherlock turned back just in time to see the horror in his eyes.

_2:25_

"Oh..." John muttered, turning on his heel. He looked around the compartment desperately, but found nothing. He didn't even know what it was that he'd been looking for in the first place. Just...something, _anything, _to get them out of this mess. But he found nothing. Turning back to the bomb, he let himself shout for the very first time. Because it didn't matter now, whether anyone heard them or not. It didn't matter. "My God!"

"Uh...uh..." Sherlock walked up and down the carriage in short strides, his voice beginning to shake. His hands flew up to his head, and John knew that he was struggling to think. Sherlock's coat flew out behind him as he walked, in a way that almost reminded John of the comic book superheroes he'd read about as a child. Heroes that were always there to save the day. But he didn't think Sherlock was going to be able to do that. Not this time.

"Why didn't you call the police?" he asked, gasping for breath. He looked down, shaking his head, as Sherlock continued to pace. It was then that he turned round, that he finally lost it. "Why do you _never _CALL THE POLICE?"

"Well... it's no use now, John I -"

"So you can't switch the bomb off?" John asked again, his voice getting louder and louder. He began to pace backwards and forwards, clenching and unclenching his fists. His palms were sweaty, and he was shaking. He'd lived through many things...war, life-threatening cases, even the death of his best friend. But never, never, had he felt like this. He'd never felt like things were _this close _to the end. "You can't switch the bomb off, and you didn't call the police?"

Sherlock looked down guiltily. He scratched his head, ruffling his hair in the process. "John, go."

"W-What?" John asked, taking a step forward. He couldn't believe this man, he honestly couldn't. Just when he thought that he'd figured him out...he went and surprised him all over again, by saying something like that. The fact that he even thought that was an option...it was infuriating. "What do you mean 'go'?"

"Leave, now. Go! Run!" he yelled, gesturing towards the door. John noted with surprise that Sherlock's hands were shaking, and felt his resolve weaken. He couldn't be angry at Sherlock, not now. If these were to be their last moments together...his last _ever _moments...then there was no point wasting them in being angry. "John, what are you doing? _Go!_"

"I'm not...leaving you, Sherlock." he whispered in disbelief, as if it were the most ridiculous idea in the world. He swayed on his feet, and saw Sherlock turn to him, his eyes pleading.

"John...please. I'll be fine, just go. If you...if anything happened to you, I'd never forgive myself."

"I'm not leaving you." John repeated, clenching his fists again. Sherlock shook his head, running his shaking hands through his hair again. He was beginning to pace now as well, but John stood his ground. He could see that Sherlock was struggling, and that there might not be a way out of this one. But he wasn't leaving his best friend to die. Not this time.

Sherlock looked down at the bomb, and John glanced down quickly. The timer blinked back at him, bright red and harsh.

_1:57_

"Think." John said, still looking down at the bomb. Sherlock looked up at him, his eyes full of confusion. But John still didn't look up. He kept his eyes firmly locked on the timer, focusing on his breathing. _In, and out. In, and out. _He had to believe that Sherlock could get them out of this. "Sherlock, please just _think. _Use your mind palace, thought bungalow, knowledge castle...whatever. Just do _something._"

"John, I don't think I...I can't -"

"_Yes, _you can." he insisted, and tore his eyes away from the bomb. At that moment, their eyes met. John could see that Sherlock was terrified. His eyes were wide and fearful, and he was still shaking. But John knew that he could do this. In all the time he'd known him, John had never seen Sherlock fail. Not once. "If anyone can get us out of this mess, then you can. I...believe in you, Sherlock."

In that moment, a look took over Sherlock's face. Just for a second. It was so fast that John almost missed it. It was a look of...gratitude and hope. But also a strong, deep-rooted sadness that John couldn't seem to place.

Then the consulting detective turned on his heel, placing his fingers on his temples. He closed his eyes tightly, and his mouth was pressed into a firm line. He began to pace in long strides, John watching him from afar. He gripped a nearby seat for support, as Sherlock continued to sort through his thoughts. He leaned forward, his breath still coming in pants and gasps. There was a sharp pain in his chest, but he ignored it.

Sherlock took his fingers off his temples and shook his hands loosely. His eyes flew open, and he looked at John for just a _second. _Before closing them again. He placed his hands on his temples again, and dropped to the floor in a crouch. John could see his eyes moving behind his eyelids rapidly. His breathing became faster, and faster, and he was beginning to shake and convulse. John wanted just to reach over and -

His eyes opened again, but this time there was something missing. That...spark that was there whenever he got something right. It was gone. And John knew that it was over.

"John...I'm sorry." Sherlock whispered, curling his hand into a fist and covering his mouth. He remained in a crouch, and John pushed himself away from the seat that he'd been leaning on. He looked down at his friend with a mixture of pity and understanding. "I...I can't do it John, I'm sorry. I tried, but...I can't."

"Sherlock, it's okay. It's not-"

"No John, it's not." he interrupted sharply. He pulled his hand away from his face, but still remained in a crouch. In a brief second, his expression had changed. And now he appeared to be almost angry. Though John wasn't entirely sure who the anger was aimed at. "If it wasn't for me, then you wouldn't even be standing there in the first place. You'd have a future...with Mary. You'd probably be with her right now, planning your wedding. I should've...I should've just stayed away. I should've just let you carry on with your life. You were doing just fine without me. And then I had to come along and screw it all up. Again."

"Sherlock, you didn't-"

"I'm sorry John. I'm so..._so _sorry." he whispered, looking up at John with pleading eyes. John clenched his fists, gripping one of the bars tightly. "I didn't mean...I didn't _want..._this shouldn't have happened. You have to understand...I never wanted to hurt you. I never wanted this to happen. Because now you're going to die...because of _me, _and-"

"Sherlock, _listen!_" John cried, and Sherlock stopped his rambling. "Sherlock...stop. I...I _wanted _you to come back, of course I did. When you died...everything changed. I changed. I didn't leave the house, I didn't speak to anyone...until I met Mary. And I loved her, I did. But it still wasn't enough. Because I still didn't have _you. _She wasn't you, Sherlock."

"John, what are you-"

"Shut up for a minute." he cut him off. "Just...let me say this, _please. _She wasn't you. I tried to tell myself that I was happy, tried to pretend that everything was okay again, but...I still couldn't get over _you._ Because...because I love you, Sherlock. I love _you. _But now I'm getting married to Mary - or at least I was - and now we're both about to die in some stupid bomb explosion and everything's gone to shit, and...I love you."

There was a short silence between them, and all that could be heard was the ticking of the bomb and John's ragid breathing. He looked down at the ground, not daring to look Sherlock in the eye. He was ashamed. He was ashamed of himself for not admitting it sooner. Because maybe if he had...just _maybe, _they wouldn't be in this mess.

"You...love..._me?" _Sherlock asked, and John nodded slowly, blinking away tears. "You...love me? _You...me? _Why?"

Confused, John swallowed his pride, and looked Sherlock in the eye. And for the first time, he could _read _him. In all the time he'd known Sherlock, John would have given anything to have his powers of deduction, just for one minute. Just so he could even _attempt _to understand the consulting detective. But right now, he didn't need any of that. Because he could read everything he needed in Sherlock's eyes.

He was scared. He was scared, and confused. And hurt. Because he couldn't understand why John would ever love someone like him. A freak. Because even though he would never admit it, that was exactly how Sherlock saw himself. Worthless. An outsider. Because his entire life, that was what he'd been lead to believe. That's what everyone, including his own _brother _had told him.

John was astounded. Sherlock genuinely didn't understand why John would love him. He was so unconvinced of his own self-worth, that even the concept of somebody loving him seemed...wrong. But John could see something else in his eyes, something that he hadn't noticed before, as it was so well hidden. It was only there for a second, and then it was gone again in the blink of an eye.

Hope.

He was at a loss for words. So he did the only thing that he could think to do at that moment. After all, actions spoke louder that words. He let go of the bar, and walked over to where Sherlock was still crouched on the floor. He looked down at him, as Sherlock looked up. He could see that his eyes were also glistening with tears, and he crouched down in front of him.

Before Sherlock could say anything else, John placed his hands on either side of the detective's face, and kissed him. Sherlock stiffened, but John didn't pull away. He'd wanted this man for so _long, _and this was his last chance. They only had a matter of seconds left, and he was going to make damn sure that they weren't wasted.

After a few seconds, Sherlock closed his eyes, leaning into the kiss. John noted absent-mindedly that he tasted like salt and nicotine. The kiss was slow, and wet from their tears, but it was still the best kiss that John had ever had. The feeling of Sherlock's lips against his own...it was worth the years that he'd waited.

As the kiss deepened, John felt Sherlock smile against his lips. He began to smile as well, despite the currently situation. But it was a sad smile. And as more tears began to race down his cheeks, John felt Sherlock's lips vibrating against his, and his chest shaking. It only took a moment before he realised that Sherlock was _laughing. _

He pulled away quickly. "What are you..."

But Sherlock just continued to laugh, looking at the floor behind John. He turned around quickly, and looked down at the bomb. All of the lights were still on, and it was still beeping, but the timer was broken. It flashed repeatedly between _1:28_and _1:29__. _John couldn't believe his eyes. He stood up slowly, looking down at the timer, before it finally dawned on him.

"You-"

"John, I-" Sherlock began, still laughing as he struggled to stand. John turned away, pacing up and down the carriage. He clenched his fists, resisting the urge to punch him in the face for the fourth time in the last seventy-two hours. But even though he was angry, he couldn't stop the smile that was beginning to take over.

"_Utter-"_

"Your face!" he pointed at John, as he continued laughing. And John was smiling now, even though he was still _so _angry. Because everything was okay. They were _okay. _And even though he'd never admit it...he'd missed this. He'd missed being pissed off with Sherlock, and Sherlock laughing at him. He'd missed _Sherlock. _

"You COCK! I knew it!" he cried, his smile widening. Sherlock's laughter began to die down, but he couldn't help but return John's smile of amusement. He never had been able to stay mad at Sherlock, even before everything that had happened. Sherlock rarely apologised, but he never needed to. Because if there was one thing that John knew, it was that Sherlock would never hurt him. At least not intentionally, anyway. "I knew it!"

"You said such sweet things..."

"You knew how to turn it off?" John asked, though the answer was fairly obvious.

"Of course I did." Sherlock replied, bending down again, and pointing at the bomb. "There's an off-switch. There's _always _an off-switch. I turned it off when you weren't looking."

"So what was all of that then?" he asked, as Sherlock straightened up again. "Why did you make me go through all of that when you could've just told me that you knew how to turn it off?"

"I felt there were some...unresolved issues between the two of us."

"What, and we couldn't have just discussed those 'unresolved issues' over a cup of tea?" he sighed, and Sherlock laughed. "No of course not, because you're Sherlock Holmes, and no conversation is complete without a life or death situation thrown in as well. I had to think that we were going to be blown up in order for me to actually _talk _to you. Frankly, I would've been fine with the cup of tea."

"Oh, and I did call the police, by the way."

"So how much of that was actually real?" John asked, looking past Sherlock's shoulder, out onto the tracks. He could see figures running towards them, carrying torches. Leading them, of course, was Greg Lestrade. He sighed again, running a hand over his tired eyes. Well, no one said a life with Sherlock Holmes was easy.

"I meant every word." he replied, looking John directly in the eyes. And John knew that it was the truth. He nodded slowly, and Sherlock shrugged, smiling. "Apart from me not knowing how to turn the bomb off, of course."

"Yeah, I'm definitely going to kill you," he said, and they both laughed.

"Oh please, killing me...that's so two years ago." Sherlock joked, looking up at John to see if he'd gone too far. John simply smiled at him, closing the distance between them once more. Sherlock found himself looking down at his blogger, and smiled. Maybe it wasn't the most conventional way of getting things out in the open...but it had still worked. "I love you."

John replied by meeting Sherlock's lips with his own.


End file.
